Page 28 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception
February 22, 1984 They took her. They took her, and I could do nothing to stop it. The men came to the front door with a warrant as if she were a common criminal. They said she was wanted for questioning about "subversive activities.” Claude Broussard was with them. He looked me in the eye and said if I interfered, they'd shut down the house permanently. And Mary, God, Mary…she has fooled us all. I saw that man put his hand on her back, lean in, whisper. She’s living in his uncle’s boarding house and I fear now I see why.
February 23, 1984 Mary left the city this morning. I helped her pack and drove her to the bus station myself. She was hysterical, certain they would come for her next. I gave her what money I could spare and made her promise to change her name, start over somewhere safe. The Circle is broken. Lena is too frightened to leave her house. I've hidden Francine's research files in the only place I'm certain they won't look - with my recipes.
February 25, 1984 Official report in today's paper: Francine Darrow reported missing by her roommate. No mention of her arrest, no mention of the questions she was asking. Claude Broussard stopped by this afternoon to inform me that Francine was released after a few hours of questioning and then went to that party with her friends. That young man was acting all concerned. He wanted to know if I had a forwarding address for Mary. I denied I had any knowledge of her whereabouts.
March 15, 1984 Final entry. I'm sealing these records in the hidden room where no one will think to look. Francine Darrow deserves justice. All those girls deserved justice. But sometimes the price of truth is higher than one woman can pay.
The truth is buried with the past. But the past has a way of rising again, especially in New Orleans. Especially in this house.
I sat back in the chair, my hands shaking. The papers felt heavy in my lap, weighted with forty years of buried secrets and unspoken guilt.
Aunt Odette hadn't just known about Francine's disappearance. She'd been there when it happened. She'd watched the police take her away, and she'd been threatened into silence.
Hollis’s father Claude Broussard had possibly been part of the cover-up and had most likely been involved with Mary.
The lights in the hidden room suddenly flickered again.
Then I heard something that made my blood freeze.
Footsteps. In the main part of the house.
Heavy, deliberate, coming from the direction of the front door.
I held my breath and listened. The footsteps paused, as if someone was standing in the foyer, listening for sounds of occupancy.
Then they started moving again. Toward the kitchen.
Toward me.
I grabbed Aunt Odette's journal pages and stuffed them into the pocket of my hoodie. Teddy was shuffling nervously. I gripped my phone, debating if I should call 911 or not. I didn’t dare exit the secret passage.
The footsteps were in the hallway outside the kitchen now.
"Harper?" a voice called. Male, familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.
I stayed perfectly still, barely breathing.
"Harper, are you home? Your car's in the driveway."
The voice was closer now. In the kitchen. Right outside the hidden door.
I pressed my back against the brick wall and prayed that whoever it was wouldn't think to look for a secret room behind the pantry.
The footsteps moved away from the door, toward the back of the kitchen.
"Weird," the voice muttered. "Lights were on when I got here, but no one's around."
I heard the back door open and close. Whoever it was had gone out into the courtyard.
This was my chance.
I scooped up Teddy, eased the hidden door open just enough to slip through, and crept back through the passage to the kitchen. The main lights were indeed on, and I could see a figure through the back door window. It was a man in a dark jacket, examining the scattered gardenias.
I made it to the kitchen door that led to the dining room just as the back door opened again.
"Someone's been busy with the landscaping. Harper, you home?"
I recognized the voice now. Father Claude Broussard.
